


firestarter

by gettingby



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Bondage, Canon Compliant, Dom/sub, First Time, I mean Simon's interest in bondage is basically canon, M/M, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, a very innocent and wholesome sexual exploration, but like only kind of?, handjobs, made up spells, very light baby dom/sub vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gettingby/pseuds/gettingby
Summary: Turns out getting spelled into a pair of invisible handcuffs turns Baz Pitch into a real brat. Simon, however, doesn't mind taking advantage.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 22
Kudos: 285





	firestarter

SIMON

There’s not much a magician can do with his hands tied behind his back.

Which is why Baz is sulking on the couch, re-watching  _ Bridget Jones’ Diary _ (of all the films!), while I’m trying to keep up with the tasks he’s ordering me to do.

_ “Snow, heat up my blood. No, not in that bowl! The blue one.” _

_ “Snow, bring me another pillow. A firmer one this time.” _

_ “Give me the other blanket, Snow. You know I hate how itchy this one is. Crowley, it’s like you’re torturing me on purpose.” _

He’s insufferably bratty, but I’m trying to be charitable. After all, it’s my fault that he got spelled into a pair of magickal handcuffs during our latest misadventure.

Plus, he’s kind of adorable when he’s helpless. It’s a nice role reversal. Baz has spent nearly a year bringing me food and water and coaxing me into the shower when I was so depressed that I couldn’t move. And he still does, those days when I wake up from a particularly vivid nightmare, or see someone at the corner store who kind of looks like the Mage, or just feel that switch flip inside me that powers me down completely.

But those days are becoming fewer, and farther between, and I want to be able to give some of that back.

I pour Baz’s warmed blood into a big cup with a bendy straw, as per his orders. Of course, he’s not the least bit grateful when he sees me bringing it to the drawing room for him.

“ _ Finally _ , Snow. Set it between my knees, so I can bend down and drink it.”

I glance down at the hand-me-down couch. It’s by no means immaculate, but I’d rather not get bloodstains on it, especially when Baz won’t be able to spell them away.

“No way,” I reply, and hold the cup so the straw is right in front of his mouth.

He stares me down and raises an eyebrow. “It’s hardly a request, Snow. Set it down.”

I can tell he’s trying as hard as possible to stop his fangs from dropping. He’s thirsty, and I’m sure the blood smells amazing. I don’t care if he’s embarrassed about drinking blood. I’m not going to make him bend in half for it, even if he weren’t recovering from an ambush.

“Isn’t this how the Old Families live? They have people who bring them everything on a silver platter? Just pretend I’m the maid, Basil. Drink up.”

He glares balefully. “You know Vera’s our only full-time housestaff.” But he rolls his eyes and gives in.

I don’t want to push too far, so I avert my eyes. When I look back, he’s staring at me through his lashes, lips wrapped around the straw and cheeks hollow. My mind rockets into the gutter.

I don’t know if Baz is doing it on purpose, but this  _ definitely _ isn’t how he drinks a Coke at Maccies. When he bobs his head up and down ever so slightly, I have to hold back a growl.

If it is on purpose, I’m sure it’s revenge for not letting him get his way, so I’m not going let on that anything’s out of the ordinary. (Anyway, we haven’t done...that. So there’s no reason why Baz’s behaviour would affect me. It’s not like I know how that would feel.)

(I can guess how it would feel, which is bloody amazing.)

“You done?” I ask, refusing to stare at his mouth like I want to. He nods but keeps his lips wrapped around the straw so that I have to slowly drag it out of his mouth.  _ Crowley. _

I get up to rinse the cup and grab a bag of Walkers from the kitchen. I hand-feed him salt and vinegar crisps as we watch the film. Every time he wants more crisps, he flicks his chin towards the bowl, without even looking away from the telly. I imagine that’s how he flags down waiters at the Club. I play along, because sometimes he licks the extra salt off my fingers - lightly, like he’s not even really thinking about it.

It’s so cute that the next time he flicks his chin, I kiss him on the cheek instead. Then the mouth.

We’ve been doing this - kissing - often. Baz comes to our apartment nearly every day after uni now. If Penny’s not there, we snog on the couch. If she is, we grudgingly relocate to my bed.

It's like when we first started dating, only better. Because these kisses aren’t about doing what we can before one of us dies (the first time), or desperately distracting myself from thoughts of Ebb, the Mage and the Humdrum (most of the times after that.)

These kisses can get desperate, but they’re desperate in a good way. I have other ways to escape my bad thoughts now. 

No, these kisses are only about Baz - how irresistibly solid he feels against me, how I can’t keep my hands off him whether in the heat of battle or a cosy night in. And...how much I love him.

Unfortunately, Baz can’t balance himself at all without his hands, so he ends up wedged awkwardly between the arm and back of the sofa. I hope he doesn’t mind too much. I really don’t want to stop.

I don’t want to stop kissing, but I also don’t want to stop  _ at  _ kissing.

Lately, all I can think about is the (blessedly frequent) times I feel Baz through his trousers. The way his hips jerk involuntarily, sometimes, before he realizes what’s happening and stops. When he kisses the moles of my neck and follows them down my chest, all I can think about is what would happen if we let ourselves go...lower.

I know Baz wants us to go farther. And I love imagining that, in vague terms. But when it comes time to do it...it’s completely different. The idea of letting anyone, even him, have free reign over my body - it makes me feel like I’m back in battle, like my heart is beating too fast and my thoughts are everywhere and I’m about to explode. I don’t want to lose control, I don’t want to hurt him, I don’t want to let him down.

So I haven’t given myself the chance.

  
  


BAZ

Snow has me completely pinned against the sofa. I think my arms are going to fall asleep, but I couldn’t care less right now. I never want to stop.

It’s getting me hotter than I’d care to admit, this stupid handcuff spell. I try to repress my Watford fantasies as much as possible (they’re a little sad and a lot embarrassing in hindsight), but I’ve thought about this one so many times that it’s permanently emblazoned in my brain:

Snow and I are in our room. I needle him until he’s about to go off. Snow backs me up against the wall, and when I try to push him away, he grabs my wrists and forces them behind my back.

In real life, I’d easily be able to escape his grip. But in this fantasy, I can’t. (And I certainly don’t want to.)

With my arms pinned behind me, I’m completely at his mercy. I imagined him furious, but limited by the Anathema.

The rest of the fantasy generally involved angry kissing, topped off by whatever sordid sex act I couldn’t stop thinking about that week. Snow grabbing me roughly and telling me that I don’t seem so tough anymore. Snow pushing me to my knees, or turning me around, or...

But I don’t go there anymore. I don’t need fantasies when I’m dating Simon Snow. Our relationship is no erotic gropefest, but it’s tender and loving. It’s confusing and infuriating and perfect. It’s  _ real _ .

  
  


SIMON

Kissing Baz like this is weird. Normally he puts his arms around me and kinda rubs my back, but right now he can’t, so I have to do everything for the both of us.

I end up letting myself go a bit. The parts of my brain that are always humming quiet down, and I lose myself in kissing him. In the feeling of his pouty bottom lip in my mouth. In his smell, familiar with an edge of the unexpected. And his taste - salty, and a bit metallic, from crisps and blood.

He’s letting out these soft moans, and he sounds so  _ good _ . His eyes have fluttered closed, his cheeks are flushed, and the muscles of his neck stretch at a tempting angle. His expression is focused and intense, jaw clenched in a way that I once assumed was anger.

He’s pushing back against my kiss, giving as good as he gets, but the only leverage he’s got is in his neck, which has got to be uncomfortable. I wrap one hand in his hair and place the other under his head to support him.

It feels good to hold him like this, to know that nothing in the universe could hurt him right now. I tip him deeper into the cushions, my body bending over him, like I’m shielding him the way I used to with my magic. I’m so overwhelmed by all these sensations that it’s almost painful.

I’m so lucky. I can’t believe we both got out of this alive. That we get to have each other.

Sometimes, thinking about how many times things have gone right for me when they could have gone wrong makes me feel terrible. Like I’m some cosmic fluke that doesn’t deserve his own good fortune. But right now, holding Baz, kissing him to an inch of our lives and having him kiss me back - all I feel is immense gratitude.

And I think Baz is feeling pretty grateful for this too, if the pressure against my thigh is any indication.

“Is this okay?” I whisper as I shift my hips just so, bringing our clothed erections in contact.

His eyes fly open. “Is this okay for  _ you _ , Simon?”

He doesn’t mean it as a challenge. Of course he’s worried; I’ve had panic attacks at this point before. But at his fucking tone of voice…

I pounce.

There’s a familiar energy thrumming in my veins, one that I haven’t felt in a long time. It’s the intoxicating feeling of trying to one-up Baz Pitch. To shock him, impress him, make him notice me.

(I’m an absolute numpty for not figuring out how I felt about him earlier.)

I thrust my hips against his instead of answering, and he lets out a strangled gasp, settling his head back. I take the opening to dive towards his neck, sucking at the spot just below his jaw that always drives him crazy. He looks so beautiful and wrecked already, as worked up now as he usually gets after a solid half hour of kissing.

I notice him straining his arms behind his back and feel briefly guilty for taking advantage...until he moans and tries to buck up against my cock, face flushed and biceps bulging against the invisible restraints. And well... _ oh _ .

“You like this,” I breathe. I don’t mean it as dirty talk (I don’t know the first thing about dirty talk), but at my words, the motions of his hips grow even more frenzied.

I keep the pressure of my own hips light, just out of his reach, and marvel at the pink blush on his face, the way he bites his lip, and the small wrinkle on his brow. It was rare that an exam question tripped him up that much at Watford, but I could never help but stare when it did. He looks like that now, only better.

“You’re the victim of a very unfortunate curse,” I say with mock concern. “I wouldn’t want to take advantage.”

“You’re going to be the victim of a curse if you don’t shut up and kiss me.”

“Not unless you say you like it!” I tease.

Baz’s pupils flare and he has to hold in a bit of a groan. That’s interesting…

I enjoy antagonizing him and being teased back, the way we did at Watford. (Only less murdery.) It’s comforting and familiar. One of the things that drove me mad not to have when Baz was missing.

I know he enjoys it too, but this time it’s different. I only feel a little perverted at the heat coiling in my belly as I repeat, “So do you like this, Baz?”

He swallows. “ _ Yes. _ ”

“Yes to what?” (I’m just spitballing here. Saying the things I’d say if I was really trying to annoy Baz. But every time I do, he just gets more hot and bothered, so I keep going.)

“Yes. I like it when you kiss me, Snow. Especially when I can’t touch you back, and I’m completely at your mercy.”

_ Merlin and Morgana.  _

I never imagined that Baz could say something like that. Or that hearing Baz say it would make me react the way I do.

I’m back on him in an instant, pulling him down so he’s settled comfortably on the couch, setting a pillow underneath him so his arms don’t get crushed.

I’m kissing more fervently now, letting instinct take over, doing the things I didn’t even realize I wanted to do. Everything I had locked up in my brain as part of the world’s longest “Do not think” list. My hips are thrusting against him now with full force, not graceful in the slightest. The tightness in my trousers is only getting worse, so I can’t imagine how uncomfortable Baz feels in those skinny dark jeans.

As I reach down to undo his flies, Baz whispers, “Simon, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

I’m grateful for his gentleness, but it’s still embarrassing to hear him say it. I growl and let some of that frustration out by yanking down his flies all the way, exposing tight, navy blue pants, stretched over the tantalising shape of his cock.

I lean down and whisper into his ear, “Last time I checked, I was the one holding  _ you _ down.”

Baz turns redder than I’ve ever seen him. He opens his mouth, but for once in his life, nothing comes out. While he’s apparently having an aneurysm, I slide his trousers down. The outline of his erection is fully visible now. It’s right there, and yet it seems like an ocean away.

Despite my cheekiness, I’m pretty nervous. We’ve only gotten to this point a couple of times. (All before my big depressive episode and the nearly relationship-ending cataclysm that followed.)

It’s - well, it’s terrifying. This is not like slaying a dragon - that was life or death, and I barely remember doing it. What no one tells you is how it’s way scarier to do the things that are...life or slightly-different-life.

But as Baz once told me, I’m one courageous fuck. So I don’t let myself think too much before I shove my hand into his pants and palm his bare cock.

“Crowley, Snow,” Baz gasps, and I feel a twinge of satisfaction at surprising him. “I - I wish I could touch you right now. I’m sorry. I wish I could be holding you.”

I rub the thumb of my other hand around in circles along his hip bone, my eyes trained on the motion so I don’t have to look at him directly. “I wish that too, Baz. I really do. But - um - it’s just easier for me this way, I think. At least for now. If that’s okay?”

He nods fervently as he whispers “Yes,  _ yes… _ ” And it’s like floodgates have opened up in my brain. There are so many things I want to do with Baz, so many ways I want us to touch each other. So many ways I want to make him feel as good and as loved as he makes me. Ways to bring us so close together, it’s like the two of us are one.

Things that make me ache with want, things I don’t allow myself to think about because it feels too much like going off.

I’m not ready for most of it yet, but...well. Now that I’ve finally let myself think about it, I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

It’s a bit strange, touching another bloke’s cock. It’s all velvety skin here, soft to feel but pleasurably firm beneath my touch. It’s long and elegant and - well, it’s lovely. Perhaps that’s a strange thing to think about a cock - but it’s  _ Baz. _ Everything about him is beautiful, even when he’s disheveled, nearly falling apart. (More so, then, if I’m being honest.)

His lips are parted and his eyes are closed now. There’s a pretty pink flush along his cheeks that I only rarely get to see, and his breaths are coming in fast, shallow gasps. I think about how I’d like to be stroked off, and try to do that in reverse. It’s right awkward, I’m sure, but Baz keeps bucking his hips up and letting small, gorgeous moans escape his lips.

Crowley, it’s almost like when I riled him up at school. (I was incredibly thick back then, wasn’t I, that I didn’t realize this is what I actually wanted to be doing?)

I tell him so. “Baz - I feel like we’re fighting, only so much better…”

  
  


BAZ 

It’s comforting to know, in a way, that I’m not the only one having sordid flashbacks.

All the same, I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. I’m struggling to suppress some truly mortifying sounds. I’m struggling to do anything, except repeat to myself in a monastic mantra that  _ Simon Snow is giving me a handjob _ . I can’t help but wonder if maybe I’ve died a second time and gone to heaven.

He’s looking at me in awe, as if  _ I’m _ the one to be marveled at, even when his curls are tumbling down his face and swaying the space between us like  _ that _ , when his ordinary blue eyes are utterly overtaken by dilated pupils. He’s looking at me like - well, like he loves me. Like I’m something precious.

It’s nearly too much, being so exposed in front of him and seeing the pure desire written on his face in return. Simon’s always been an open book, but right now I feel like I’m looking directly at the sun.

I want to break free of this damned curse, put my hands all over him, show him that I want him as much as he wants me, but I can’t. That thwarted desire is an exquisite kind of torture that heightens the all-consuming sensations thrumming in my body.

“Snow,” I breathe, as he dips his head down to capture my lips in a strangely chaste kiss. It’s so tender, while his hand on me is unrelenting and insistent. He’s becoming more confident as I writhe and moan below him, his strokes faster now. His thumb is spreading precum along the head of my cock, and the combined stimulation is nearly too much. 

“Snow, I’m - I’m going to come -“

And then his hand stops moving altogether, and I groan in frustration.

Crowley, how is he already such an expert at making me fall apart? (I suppose he’s not actually an expert - I’m just a tragically besotted twat.) (Who couldn’t be happier about it.)

I open my eyes and quirk an eyebrow.

“Call me Simon,” he murmurs in reply.

_ Crowley _ . I can’t wrap my mind around what’s happening to me right now. Snow is  _ shrugging _ as he innocently denies me what’s bound to be the best orgasm of my (admittedly pathetic) life.

I thrust my hips into his unmoving hand, trying for something, anything, to assuage the ache building inside of me. Simon is just holding himself on all fours above me, eyes focused on the motion of my thighs as I chase the sweet but too-soft drag of his hand against my cock. 

The sight of him like this is too much. It’s not long before my self-respect has evaporated completely. I concede with “ _ Simon, Simon. Love, please _ ,” and he positively  _ growls _ . (Because he’s an brute, though an inflammably handsome one.)

Then he starts stroking me again in earnest, and the tension that was already coiled so tight within me builds and builds and builds - until it reaches a crescendo, and snaps like a string.

And then I’m coming, and it feels like I’ve never come before. Because I haven’t, not really; this is so much better than anything I’ve felt on my own. Not because Simon has somehow exceeded my own technique (which was perfected over many shameful summers of trying to forget him), but because, well, it’s  _ him _ . Not a painfully unattainable ideal, but truly  _ him _ , in a way that I couldn’t have dreamt up in my wildest fantasies.

Mine to hold and keep and love, even through the darkest and brightest times.

  
  


SIMON

Baz Pitch falling apart is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Normally, he’s so buttoned up, perfectly pressed with not a hair out of place. Untouchable. But now - he’s broken down all those walls, for me. For us. His expression is pure pleasure, uninhibited by propriety. He’s completely letting go, and that makes me feel - well, it makes me feel right special. That I’m the one Baz has chosen to see him like  _ this _ .

He’s coming and coming and I stroke him through it, let it slick up my hand. I keep going until his cock stops throbbing in my palm, until he settles back on the sofa with a pleased sigh.

I lean down and kiss him then, because I can’t resist, not when he’s looking so soft and content. He returns my kiss languidly, our breaths mingling - 

And that’s when we hear the key in the door.

I scramble to set myself to rights before I realise that I’m relatively presentable, really, and Baz actually  _ can’t _ for himself. He lifts his hips upwards so that I can tug his pants back on, which is easy enough. His trousers, however, are bunched along his knees, and sinfully tight.

I debate internally if it’s more efficient to take Baz’s trousers all the way off and just pretend that he was lounging about in his pants. In the end, I run out of time to make a decision, but fortunately have enough sense to pull the blanket off the floor and cover him up.

Penny rushes in a moment later, looking harried. “Simon, I came as quickly as I could! Basil, are you alright? Come here, let me unspell you.”

We’re silent, then, for a moment that feels like an eternity. Baz clears his throat, and Penny’s eyes dart between us furiously before she throws her hands in the air and stalks off towards her room.

“I can’t believe the two of you couldn’t keep your pants on despite sending me an actual  _ SOS come ASAP _ text!” she groans. “I’ve half a mind to never unspell you at all - serves the two of you right.”

I meet Baz’s glittering grey eyes. He leans into my ear and growls, “I wouldn’t mind if she didn’t.”

That makes me want to snog him into the couch for another hour. But instead of giving in, I tuck him into his trousers and we apologise to Penny.

Because Baz Pitch is  _ getting _ unspelled. And someday, very soon, he’s going to have his hands all over me, too.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
